Tuesday, November 29, 2016

The background is important, as it’s shaped many decisions, and I’ve come full
circle.

UCSB – Political Science/International Relations major, because I wanted to be
a diplomat (really I wanted to travel). Took Biology for non-majors in my 2nd
year and decided I wanted to be a Biology major because I loved it so much. I
did well in science in HS but was never really encouraged to be a scientist. I
didn’t even know how one could be.

Beginning my 5th year, I looked at how much I had to finish that bio
degree.One more year of Physics and a
couple of upper division Chemistry classes.What did I need to finish the Poli Sci degree? Two courses. I switched
back to Poli Sci and got my B.A.

Trying to decide how to use my love of science with my degree in political
science and a desire to save the world, I discovered Public Health,
particularly epidemiology. I applied to Yale’s School of Public Health.I loved Infectious Disease Epidemiology, and
the school’s focus on international research was the perfect fit. By the end of
my first year, I decided that to do real work in this field, I needed a PhD.

I finished my MPH (incurring a lot of debt), and began the
PhD program at Yale. I worked in vector biology – ticks, sand flies,
mosquitoes, tsetse flies. While there, I travelled, ahem, did field work, in
Costa Rica, I took FOUR long years to
finish my work on the molecular genetics of the Y chromosome, but overall, worth
every moment.

Oxford, England (well, that was mostly lab work), and Kenya.

After
my qualifying exams, for a variety of reasons (mostly personal but partly due
to changing dynamics at Yale), I transferred to Notre Dame to “finish” my PhD.
No coursework, but started over on a new project, this time on mosquitoes and
malaria.

Having spent most of the last years working on the vector, the epidemiologist
in me wanted to work on the parasite. I
started a post-doc on drug-resistant Plasmodium falciparum in Thailand. The
position was based in San Antonio, TX, so I had a US (NIH) salary, but spent most of my time on the
Thai-Burma border. Amazing experience in so many ways – my experience learning
about socio-political dynamics proved valuable in this crossroads of cultures,
refugees, civil war, and fascinating people.And the science was interesting too.

Back in San Antonio in between Thai trips, now in my early 30s, I met a rather
nice Swiss physicist, just arrived for a two year postdoc.As that progressed, no worries he said, he
had no plans to stay in TX long term. Married at 34, in my last year of
post-doc, I started looking for other positions in San Antonio. I had always
assumed I’d build a lab like my mentors, a pseudo-family of scientists,
mentoring young scientists. At the time, no viable academic jobs came up, and
now married, wasn’t willing to move for a job (though I did look at some
possibilities).I settled on a second
post-doc at the USDA in Kerrville working on ticks. Lots of people in my field
do two post-docs. Great place in many ways, but I found myself sucked more into
basic scientific research, and away from the real-world-disease science that my
epidemiologist brain wanted to consider.

So when a position came up as a (poorly paid) epidemiologist with the city
health department, I decided to leave lab-science. It wasn’t a difficult
decision, as it seemed it had been coming on for some time. My only hesitation was feeling like I was
somehow letting down my fellow women in science, that I’d be perceived as “giving
up for my husband’s career.” I didn’t feel like that, as he’d have supported
whatever I wanted and if that required moving, we’d have worked it out. But I
felt the weight of all the women scientists who had come before who helped me
get to this point.

I knew once I left I likely could never go back, at least not into Academia. I
was surprisingly ok with that. Mentally, I was ready for a new challenge. I had
always referred to myself as an “epidemiologist in a scientist’s body.” Now I’d
be a real epidemiologist. By chance, I became part of Public Health Emergency
Preparedness and discovered a whole new world of emergency management and
public health disaster response, thanks to Hurricanes Katrina and Rita.By default, I also became the local expert on
influenza, disaster preparedness (giving hundreds of talks to local businesses
and community organizations, as well as health care facilities). I began to say
I was“scientist in an epidemiologist’s
body.” One of the only people with an advanced science degree in the
department, that expertise singled me out.

On I went to work for DSHS (Region 8) as the Communicable Disease Program
Manager, overseeing all communicable disease programs, and directly managing the
TB and HIV/STD programs.I learned to
become the resident expert on those topics. Worked various outbreaks, including
a massive TB investigation on the border. Then the flu pandemic, H1N1, first
discovered in our region.Technically,
the CDC team did all the real work, my job was to oversee their work, ask them
the right questions, and agree with their recommendations, then take that to
the directors.

Then I had my second kid. I was 40, finally paid off all my debts. My husband
was travelling a lot, and my job was requiring me to travel on a moment’s
notice. My work was becoming increasing all about HRand less about projects. I was good at
management but frustrated to not do the real “science/public health” work.
Something had to give, I decided to become a SAHM. Yes, with a PhD. Again I
worried that I’d be perceived as sacrificing for my husband/kids, but I didn’t
feel like I was. It was the best decision I ever made.I did all sorts of stuff over the next year,
had fun with my two kids, got involved in projects locally.

When my husband was diagnosed with cancer I was so glad I wasn’t working full
time, but also decided I needed to participate in the workforce at least
somewhat, to stay connected, should I ever need to support our family. So an
adjunct teaching offer came up at UIW. Perfect timing, and I loved teaching.
The pay was pathetic, barely covering my childcare costs, but I was good at it
and loved it.A couple of years into it,
a friend who worked with the state Lege sent me a notice for a consulting job
with an immunization focused non-profit.Their mission is advocacy of science-based policy, support of best
practices, and immunizations education. I took that on, while teaching.I was the “Subject Matter Expert” and local
rep for the organization, with the intent to build the program in my city. At
the same time, an article I wrote about education for a local news website led
to a semi-regular freelance gig writing on health and science topics.

Around that time I reached out on behalf of the
immunizations program to the director of a group who did emergency
management/disaster response. We wanted his sponsorship of our conference. He said, “Where have you been! We need you.” They pulled me in
to their Incident Management Team and I spent some time working on infection
control procedures for Ebola.I’ve been
called up for other events (outbreaks in immigrant shelters) but haven’t had time.

Eventually, something had to give so I dropped the teaching and started working
more hours consulting, and am now on salary part time.I considered diving into science writing full
time, and participated on a panel at the recent science writers
conference.But I think I’ve decided not
to invest in science writing as a “real” job, and just stick with my freelance
gig. I’ve been pulling back on that though, as my NPO – Immunizations work
kicks into higher gear.My current
position has morphed, but I am currently working on two CPRIT grants with UT,
in an area more services-research focused than lab based, but again as the SME
with my academic background, I’m the bridge between the UT researchers and our
organization. I'm also working on developing a local immunizations advocacy network to support science based policy.

So not what I planned when I was 27 doing my PhD. I miss traipsing across the
tropics doing field work, I miss some of the discovery of research, but it
doesn’t fit with the life I’ve created. And I like the life I've created: scientist, political activist, health educator, mentor, parent, spouse, community activist.

Sunday, May 22, 2016

I so rarely update this page, but this one deserves a mention. I first played the Hamilton CDs in the car a couple of months ago. Immediately upon hearing the songs, Angelina was singing along. More importantly, she started to ask questions about the American Revolution and all the characters involved. She wanted to study history and learn more.

Then she wanted to sing. So she gathered a group of friends together to perform the opening number for her school's talent show. They worked hard for a week, but mostly, they had fun rehearsing (which involved a lot of trampoline play time).

"Pride is not the word I'm looking for. There is so much more inside me now."

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

On July 14 two years ago, I saw the news that Cory Monteith, star of Glee, aged 31, had died of a suspected drug overdose the night before. I was filled with anger, but in a small apartment with two families while on vacation, I bottled up my emotions, not wanting my kids to see me cry and not being able to explain why. As a high school kid who loved music and dancing but couldn’t sing, I was the glee club groupie of my day. So, many years later, I naturally loved the TV show, and its star. A life cut short is always sad, but why did the death of this stranger send me to the bathroom to hide and cry my eyes out?

Because, 24 years before, there was another 31 year old at the top of the world, full of life, the kind of person to make everyone laugh and smile. He was the kind of person who, when he walked into a room, you knew the party had started. There’d be song and dance and joy. He was the kind of person who would give you the shirt of his back, who would rush to your side to help you up. He was also the kind of person who also had a darkness inside he couldn’t overcome, whose pain was so unbearable he turned to cocaine to numb it. He was my big brother.

The first emotion is anger – why would someone be so selfish as to turn to drugs? Don’t they know they have a family who love them? Friends? Fans? (And believe me, my brother Albert had fans!) Sometimes it takes years to get over that anger, and sometimes it comes back, like each time a well-known person dies in the same way. Sometimes the anger is directed at ourselves – why didn’t we do more? Why couldn’t we fix it? Why couldn’t we love enough? What did we do wrong?

But the other emotion one recognizes over time is one of sympathy, if not quite understanding. Depression, real depression, is a powerful demon, not easily controlled. It’s not about “feeling blue.” It’s about being brought to the depths of despair and feeling like there is no way out. People in that place find a way to numb the pain. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand it, but I recognize that it’s not so easy to toss off.

Sometimes, a loved one can help pull them back up. Often, they can’t. You can love someone completely, you can be there for them, you can give them your hope, but you can’t save them.

In June of 1989, when my brother hadn’t returned my calls for a number of days, I got worried. I went to his apartment and he wasn’t there. I found an open window and climbed in. On the counter I found a steno-pad with notes about cocaine: what it does to the body, how the body reacts physiologically, how the brain reacts.

Then he walked in. At first relieved he was ok, I then worried he’d be furious to see his 19-year-old kid sister snooping, but he was calm, peaceful. He told me that he’d not only been off cocaine for many months, but was working on understanding it so he could learn to counsel kids about drug use. We talked for hours that night. Finally, I went home, content that he was well into recovery. A young man full of so much promise, so much love and hope. A man full of laughter.

Two weeks later, in a particularly dark moment of despair, he reached for the one thing he knew could numb the pain, cocaine. And it did. Forever.

[edit: I'm being an armchair psychologist. To my knowledge, he was never diagnosed with depression, because I don't think he ever sought out psychiatric help. But knowing what I know now, the manic-depression-drugs cycle is very obvious. I use addiction and depression interchangeably, because for him, I think they were linked. ]

Friday, March 27, 2015

Summer of 1985, my sister, Denise, was 12 and I was 15. Not quite a kid, but hardly a savvy world
traveller. My brother Tim lived in St.
Croix, USVI and my sister Theresa lived in NYC. My mom decided Denise and I
should visit (how exactly they came up with the money I don’t know, but it was
bargain basement air travel…). My only experience of airports had been picking
up visiting relatives.

Denise, getting ready to board

One-way from LA to NYC on People’s Express for $100.Uneventful. Theresa and her friends met us in
NYC, we took our first subway ride, had a blast. The next day she delivered us
to JFK for our flight to San Juan, Puerto Rico then onward to St. Croix.

When Denise and I arrived in San Juan, we had to change airlines to a small
puddle jumper. Though PR is a US territory, it’s definitely a Latin American
place and, despite growing up in a very Hispanic area of Los Angeles, seemed foreign.
So, dragging our bags, we searched the airport for the airline counter and couldn’t
find it.Eventually we noticed the sign
for that airline, but no one was at the counter. I asked the people in the
counter next to it and was told “Oh, they went out of business.”

Now would have been a good time to freak out,
but I guess when you’re clueless, you don’t realize you should be freaking
out.

So what did that mean? The folks
there had no idea, except, the airline no longer existed.

Tim and Denise at Grassy Point, East End, St Croix

Somehow, I found a pay phone and called my brother. He had
been notified of the airline’s situation and managed to arrange an alternative
flight. So we trudged over to the new airline and made our way to St Croix.

First crisis over.

On the way back, our flight into JFK was delayed. We arrived
in the international terminal (not sure why as we came via PR) to a crush of
people pushing on the barricades. That was overwhelming, having never seen such
a sight.

Again we had to change airlines for our onward flight to
Ohio, where we’d meet the rest of our family and drive back to California.Knowing we had very little time to make our
connection and having no idea how these things worked, I told my 12 year old
sister to get our luggage while I ran over to the ticket counter to tell them
we had arrived and told her to meet me there.

At 12 years old.In
JFK. In the International Arrivals area (having since spent many hours in this
area, WHAT WAS I THINKING?!)

And then Denise didn’t show up.

I waited. No Denise.

Finally the agent said they had to let the plane go,
meanwhile I’m thinking “Holy crap! I sent my 12 yr old sister into the bowls of
a crowded airport and I am responsible for her and what if something happened?”

Now’s an ok time to freak out.

And then she showed up, dragging our bags. I had never been
so happy to see my sister in all my life. Denise wasn’t the least bit scared, or
worried.

Just pissed off. And calm, in her very-Denise way that involved looks of shooting daggers deep into my body.

The US Airways agent, nicest man ever, then spent the
next 2 hours trying to figure out how to get us to Cleveland, Ohio, where my other sister, Michele, would meet us. My sister wasn’t in NYC at that time, so we couldn’t go
to her place. There were no more flights out of JFK to anywhere in Ohio.

Finally, he
found a flight out of La Guardia, leaving in less than 3 hours, but that required
getting there. We had little money, no credit cards, no cell phones (it was
1985).

So we took a bus. In NYC. The kindly agent said “HURRY!” So we rushed, and got on the wrong bus.

My brother Chris with Malinda and Ronnie's son, Scott.

Finally got on the right bus. Somehow made it to La Guardia
in time, checked in, and got on our flight, arrived safely in Columbus, Ohio where
our cousins Malinda and Ronnie picked us up and eventually delivered us to the
rest of the Rohr Clan.

Monday, August 18, 2014

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

I just read an article entitled “I miss my village.” I read it while folding pool towels, preparing
for an onslaught of neighborhood kids and their parents to come over for a summer
afternoon. The only reason I was “preparing” was that, after so many impromptu
neighborhood gatherings, I decided we had to limit them a little bit so we
could plan other activities. (The house is still a mess, but that’s ok because
I know my fellow villagers don’t care)

See, I live in The Village. That village where your neighbor’s door is open and
your kids freely wander in. Ok, not so freely, my neighbor put sleigh bells on
her back door so she could hear when my kid wandered in, as often she’d turn
around, startled, to find a stealthy 4 year old looking up at her.

A neighborhood where, when my husband was diagnosed with
cancer and faced multiple surgeries, before I could blink my eyes neighbors
planned childcare for our two kids, planned and delivered meals, even offered
to clean my house.

The village where, when I must write down the responsible
adults who may pick up my child from school, the newcomer at the school thinks
I must be nuts: I have at least ten names down. Then a teacher steps in and
says “I have to explain to them about ‘the neighborhood.’” Because, at any given time, if I’m stuck
across town, or having a sleeping baby I would rather not wake, or was in the
middle of a home project, I could call and ask “Can you get my kid from school today?”

The village where, when I had to go out of town for the day, I could rally a
tag team of five families to pick up and deliver my kids from different schools
to different homes until I could get back.

The village where, when I need a wine opener, I can walk
next door and borrow one, then share the wine. Ok, I’ll be honest, usually it’s
my neighbor asking for the wine opener because I’m well stocked, but we still
share the bottle.

The village where, after yet another pool party, the
gathering will morph into dinner and movie watching with multiple families
(this one planned, because, we know by now it’ll happen anyway).

The village where I can chat with my female friends, some
other moms, some without kids. The village where I can chat with my male
friends, some dads, some without kids. The village where my childless next door
neighbors are honorary grandparents to my kids. The village consists of all types of families, not just those with kids.

Our village is urban, and while we have trees to climb, there are streets to traverse, which mean we can’t just let our four year olds run to their friend’s house a few blocks away (as much as he may think he can). There’s enough traffic that I don’t let my kids play in the street, but they can walk down the sidewalk to the neighbors' houses. We have what one neighbor calls "Walkpooling" - she'll pick up anywhere from five to ten kids and walk them home from school.

Our village has multiple layers. The layers include two major neighborhoods and
another smaller one, but still, all One Village. The layers include families with small kids, families with grown kids, childfree families, and singles. One Village.

Monday, March 03, 2014

Martin H. Rohr made an
impact on everyone he met. Having lived 81 years and giving his family and
friends a lifetime of stories, he died peacefully on Friday, Feb. 28.

Marty was born on Nov. 24, 1932, the tenth of 14 children of
Elmer and Helen Rohr and raised on the family farm in Massillon, OH. Joining the US Navy in 1951, he reported for
duty at the US Naval Training Center in IL, where 63 years later, his grandson
would also report for duty. Serving
through the Korean War, it was while stationed in San Diego that he became
friends with Charles (“Carlitos”). Far away from his own family, Marty happily
tagged along to the large Mexican family gatherings of Carlitos’ extended clan
in Los Angeles. It was at these events he
met Elaine, who would become his wife after his honorable discharge in 1955.
Together they raised eight children in Baldwin Park, CA.

Always a hard worker, Marty was a milkman, a meter reader
for the electric company, and worked in various construction jobs before
founding Martel Rebar, later to become Rohr Steel.

He gave a lifetime of service to others. He was a continual presence at the schools
his children attended: St John the
Baptist in Baldwin Park and Bishop Amat High School in La Puente. From moving
bleachers, to conducting parking at football games, to setting up for festivals,
he was always ready to lend a hand.

As Scout Master of Boy Scout Troop 695 in Baldwin Park, he
taught the boys (and some of their sisters) how to tie knots, led camping and
hiking expeditions and served as a role model to a generation of boys and
girls.

Most recently, he was a very dedicated member of the
American Legion Post Charter Cove 755, donating many hours of his time and
expertise to the Post. He considered his fellow Legionnaires family. He will
long be remembered by Legionnaires, friends, and family alike standing over an
open fire making his famous Mojo potatoes and telling stories.

The many friends of his eight children knew him as “Dad
Rohr,” the man who drove the 1963 Ford van filled with teenagers to football
games, visits to the mountains, and trips to the beach. Marty was a father figure and role model not
just to his own children, but to all their friends and neighbors, to his many
nieces and nephews, to his grandchildren and to their friends who also called
him “Opa.” Indeed, when remodeling the
small 3-bedroom house in Baldwin Park, he said his goal was to make the house so
that all friends and relatives would feel welcome and there was always space
for one more.

A strong believer in the importance of education and known
for giving the shirt off his back to someone in need, he donated his body to UC
Irvine Medical School, so he could continue to be of service and to foster
education.

Preceded in death by his son Albert and granddaughter Camie,
he is survived by Elaine; his children and their spouses: Tim and Leone; Theresa
and Paul;Loretta
and Bruce; Chris and Debbie; Michele and Steve; Cherise and Frederic; Denise and Kurt, and 25
grandchildren. He is also survived by his siblings Cletus, Ron, Gerrie, and
Helen Ann, and more than 60 nieces and nephews.

The family is especially grateful to those who assisted in
his care in his final years at Claremont Place Assisted Living and to our
cousin, Susan, who always brought a smile to our dad’s face.

Marty leaves a legacy of service, of laughter, and
celebration. A Catholic Mass in celebration of his life will take place at
1:30 pm on Saturday, March 8, at St Joseph’s Catholic Church, 925 N. Campus
Ave, Upland, CA, 91786. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to St John
the Baptist School Youth Programs, c/o Noreen Ebiner, 3870 Stewart Ave, Baldwin
Park, CA 91706.